


Can't Keep a Good Man Down

by roboticonography



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Boners, F/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7001005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the serum, Steve has to deal with a persistent side effect. In his pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend reading this story as a single work; the "chapters" aren't so much chapters as places where I paused in the writing for a while.

Steve’s new body surprised him in a lot of ways he wasn’t prepared for.

 

Doctor Erskine and Agent Carter had explained that he would have increased strength, and speed, and that his senses might be enhanced. They hadn’t told him—probably because they didn’t know—that he’d be able to see perfectly in complete darkness, to hear people talking softly on the other side of a hotel wall, to smell bread baking in an oven blocks away. They hadn’t told him that he’d be able to feel someone approaching him from behind, or that he’d only need about an hour of sleep a night—which was fine, because he could also now read about five times as fast as before, and still remember every word days later.

 

Dr. Erskine was gone, and Agent Carter was off on her next assignment, and there was no one who could guide Steve in getting to know his new, improved self. But he was figuring it out.

 

Steve also had to learn how to be in the world all over again. It used to be that he could squeeze into a tight seat on the train, or slip into a movie theatre unnoticed. Now, if he sat anywhere but in the back row, his appearance was cause for glares and frustrated groans, and occasionally calls of “down in front!” even though he was already seated. Everywhere he sat or stood, it seemed, he was blocking someone from something: a doorway, a counter, an aisle.

 

He was suddenly extremely visible, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

 

Girls noticed him too. More than noticed, actually; they admired him, openly. They smiled and winked at him as he walked by, made space for him to sit next to them on buses or park benches or at lunch counters. Girls he’d never spoken to asked him how his day was going, wanted to know his name, called him _handsome_ or _sunshine_ or _sweetheart_. For Steve, who wasn’t used to this kind of attention, it was all a bit overwhelming; but he tried to be polite and pleasant, and not to let it go to his head too much.

 

The USO tour was a blessing in disguise. As much as Steve hated the idea of being a shill, the weeks spent in rehearsal gave him time to learn his new body; to accept its idiosyncrasies, and trust it to carry him. And it gave him the opportunity to practice talking to twenty of the most gorgeous girls he’d ever seen up close in real life, who were perfectly happy to chat to him about any old thing. By the time they were ready to go on the road, he knew all the girls’ names and a little something personal about each one, and his palms had stopped sweating every time one of them approached.

 

Once they were on tour, it started to become apparent to Steve that a few of the girls were looking for more than just conversation from him.

 

Ginger was the first to stake her claim: she found him scrubbing off his stage makeup one evening, and offered to help. She kissed him very softly, which he liked a lot; then she kneaded his thigh, which he liked a little _too_ much, and had to excuse himself before she spotted the telltale dark patch on his trousers.

 

That had never happened to Steve before. He didn’t have much experience with girls before the serum, but he’d never stained his shorts from just a kiss. It was an alarming development.

 

It happened a few other times, too.

 

One night, just as he was about to go onstage, Ethel (who had always been forward) squeezed his ass, and whispered in his ear that she’d sit on his face if he asked. Steve wound up having to hold his shield at an awkward angle to hide the evidence of his lack of self-control.

 

Another time, on the tour bus, Trixie fell into his lap playfully, wriggling against him, and that and the vibrations of the bus over the gravel road were enough to set him off.

 

He took to wearing an extra pair of boxers at all times, just in case.

 

There didn’t even have to be a girl nearby; sometimes all he had to do was think about one he liked, and he’d go off like a shot.

 

He spent far too much time thinking about Agent Carter. Her rich voice and red, red mouth; her coal-dark eyes and bright, beautiful smile; the lush curves that even a uniform couldn’t hide. Any time he had a moment of relative privacy, hers was the face and figure that he pictured, and hers was the hand that he imagined in place of his own, guiding him over the edge.

 

He hated to think of how angry she’d be, if she knew. How disappointed.

 

Days on the road turned into weeks. Steve learned how to tune out all the sensory noise, how to gently turn a door handle or hold a coffee cup, how to move through a crowded bar without knocking anyone over. But he couldn’t seem to get the problem in his pants under control.

 

And then, one fateful day, he finished the matinee show in Philadelphia to find Agent Carter, in the flesh, waiting for him backstage.

 

“Hello, Steve. How’s everything?”

 

She’d traded in her uniform for a smart slacks-and-blazer combination, a silky blouse underneath. As she approached, he caught the faint scent of some very English flower—lavender, maybe, or roses.

 

“Great, good, it’s… how’s everything with you?”

 

“Classified,” she said dryly.

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’ve been sent to see how you’re getting on, with all of the...” She gestured vaguely, encompassing his entire body. “There’s a questionnaire we have to fill in, when you have a moment.”

 

He couldn’t help but notice that the topmost button of her blouse was undone, revealing just the tiniest hint of cleavage. He started to sweat, and immediately redirected his gaze, prompting, “A questionnaire?”

 

“It’s a psychological evaluation. As I’m sure Dr. Erskine told you, there was an earlier variation of the formula that produced some rather… unpleasant… side effects.”

 

“Right.” Steve was experiencing an unpleasant side effect even as they spoke, albeit not the one she was referring to. _And of course I’m wearing these goddamn tights_ , he thought, trying to look casual while holding his shield in front of him for cover.

 

“We can sit down after your evening performance and go through it, if you’re available. I’ve a very small meal allowance that might stretch to two people, as long as you don’t have your heart set on filet mignon.”

 

He nodded, making sure to meet her eyes.

 

“Is there something on my face?” she inquired.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re staring.”

 

“I… no. Nope.”

 

He caught just the barest hint of a smile, as though his staring wasn’t entirely unwelcome—which didn’t help matters.

 

“I should… better go and change,” he said quickly.

 

“All right. I’ll meet you outside the stage door, half-past nine?”

 

“Swell. Looking forward to it.”

 

“And I look forward to the show this evening. I understand you have a song and dance number?”

 

“Oh, no, I don’t sing, or dance—the girls do that. I just give a speech, and I…” he felt ridiculous saying it to someone who had seen actual combat, “I knock out Adolf Hitler.”

 

“It’s about time someone did, I suppose.” She looked at him sympathetically. “I know it’s not the sort of work you hoped you’d be doing.”

 

“I don’t mind it, really,” he said, and escaped to his dressing room before she had the chance to be any nicer to him.

 

*

 

That night, Steve had the worst case of pre-show jitters he’d had since going on the road: his mouth was dry, his palms were sweating, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. The only upside of it all was that his nervousness seemed to preclude any other type of excitement, at least temporarily.

 

It was a good crowd: relaxed, lots of laughs, plenty of cute kids who were keen to help Captain America fight the forces of evil. Steve had fun with it, and mostly managed to forget that Agent Carter was out there in the darkened theatre.

 

After the show, he quickly changed into his uniform. He’d had the good sense to shine his shoes beforehand, saving him some time—which he promptly squandered in front of one of the girls’ lighted makeup mirrors, applying Brylcreem to an especially stubborn cowlick.

 

“Who’s the spit-and-polish for, Stevie?” asked Agnes, peeking over his shoulder. “Hot date?”

 

There were a few hoots and hollers in the dressing room.

 

“Nothing like that. My CO is in town, I’m gettin’ evaluated.” Agent Carter wasn’t exactly his CO, but he wanted to put a stop to any gossip before it gained traction.

 

“I’ll evaluate ya,” called Trixie from the corner, in the act of pulling a dress over her head. “Report to my room at oh-four-hundred, soldier.” She wiggled the dress down over her hips, then gave him a sloppy, wrong-handed salute.

 

“That’s four in the morning,” said Steve mildly.

 

“What’s the matter? Can’t get it up that early?”

 

He rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. Behind him, someone gave a saucy whistle.

 

Agnes reached up to smooth down the hackles at the back of his head. “It wants to go this way,” she told him. “No need for all that hair oil.” She waved away his thanks. “Never mind that, sweetie. You have fun on your date.”

 

“It’s not a _date_ ,” he insisted, sliding into his Captain America voice. “Everyone calm down about it.”

 

Which, of course, was practically an engraved invitation to give him several more minutes of hell while he finished getting ready.

 

It was a relief to finally step out of the noise and heat of the theatre into the cool of the evening. As promised, Agent Carter was waiting by the stage door.

 

She’d changed into a navy dress with red trim, accented by the usual feminine touches: stockings and heels, lipstick and curls. The overall effect was heart-stopping.

 

Fortunately, the trousers of his uniform were somewhat more forgiving than his stage costume. He slid his hands in his pockets, a trick he hadn’t had to use since middle school.

 

“Wow,” he blurted out.

 

She flicked the remainder of her cigarette onto the pavement, grinding it out under her shoe. “Hm?” she said, carelessly.

 

“It’s nice to—you—you look so nice.” Hopeless. He was completely hopeless.

 

“Yes, I rather think so too,” she said easily. “Shall we? I haven’t eaten since noon. I’m  _ravenous_.”

 

Steve swallowed hard, wishing she’d chosen a different word, or not said it with quite so much abandon. “Ready when you are.”

 

Since she’d be footing the bill, Steve left it to Agent Carter to choose the restaurant. She finally settled on a diner a few blocks from the hotel where the USO performers were being billeted. 

 

Fortunately, none of the girls were there to see them walk in together. While she was decidedly not his date for the evening, she definitely looked the part. She was an attractive woman, even in regulation olive drab; in the fitted navy dress, she was an absolute knockout. She crossed a room like no woman Steve had ever known: straight-backed and sure-footed, confidence and power riding on her shoulders. He was convinced that every single person in the place either wanted to be her, or wanted to be with her.

 

She was, in every respect, magnificent.

 

Steve did his level best to ignore it.

 

Once they were seated in a booth and had given their order, Peggy got out a stack of papers and an expensive-looking cartridge pen. 

 

Steve valiantly tried not to notice the way the dress’s red piping made an X in the centre of her chest, drawing the eye straight to her cleavage, or the effects that her movements had on said cleavage. He was suddenly relieved to have the table between them.

 

“You look like you’re facing the firing squad,” she said. “It’s only a few questions. Try to relax.”

 

With a confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “Fire away, Agent Carter.”

 

“Peggy. Please.” She smiled encouragingly.

 

“Okay. Peggy.”

 

The questions were fairly straightforward: had he experienced any disruption in his sleep patterns? Any unexplained anger or sadness? Paranoid thoughts? Sudden mood swings? Unusual urges?

 

“What qualifies as unusual urges?”

 

“Anything you wouldn’t ordinarily do.” Peggy looked down at her sheet, then back at him. “Violent or disturbing impulses.”

 

“Nothing violent or disturbing, no.”

 

“But you have noticed something?”

 

He crossed his legs involuntarily, which definitely didn’t help his problem. “It’s the kind of thing I’d feel more comfortable talking to a doctor about.”

 

She looked annoyed. “I’ve had medical training. You won’t offend my delicate sensibilities.”

 

“It’s not—it’s personal,” he said miserably. “That’s all.”

 

She capped her pen and set it down. “Why don’t you tell me off the record? We can decide together if it’s something that needs to go in the official report.”

 

“Well, I guess it’s—”

 

Which was, of course, when the waitress returned with their blue-plate specials.

 

Peggy hadn’t been kidding about being hungry; she tucked into her meal with an enthusiasm that Steve found enormously appealing, so much so that he forgot about his own food until she shot him a questioning look.

 

Despite the momentary distraction, however, she clearly wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Come on,” she said. “You’ll feel better once it’s out in the open.”

 

Steve took a deep breath, toying with his fork. “I’ve been getting… excited. A lot. Very easily.”

 

She looked perplexed—and then her gaze flicked down to the area in question. “Excited, as in...?”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“I see. And how long…”

 

“How _long_?” he echoed, feeling his face heat up. He was surprised she would ask such an intensely personal question. And he didn’t see what it had to do with anything.

 

“How long does it usually last?” she clarified.

 

“Oh! Well, it—until I—you know. Finish.”

 

“And you didn’t have this issue before the procedure?”

 

“I’m not bringing it up because I thought it would be fun dinner conversation,” he retorted.

 

“All right, there’s no need to get worked up.” Her choice of words seemed to catch up to her, and he thought he saw her flush slightly. 

 

“It isn’t that I never... had that happen before. I just wasn’t on a hair trigger. And it’s all the time now. Multiple times a day. It’s like I’m thirteen years old again. I figured it had to have something to do with the serum.”

 

“It does seem likely. Is there anything in particular that causes it?”

 

“Just... the usual things.”

 

“Sex?”

 

Steve briefly considered trying to drown himself in his mashed potatoes. ”No, I haven’t been—doing that.”

 

“Ah. Masturbation, then.”

 

“Can you lower your voice, please?” He glanced around; mercifully, none of the diner’s other patrons seemed to be paying them any attention.

 

“Steve, if you want my help, you’re going to have to speak plainly.”

 

Which was no good, as his imagination immediately supplied some very creative ways that Peggy might be able to  _help_  him with his problem. Any one of which, he was fairly certain, she would have slapped him for suggesting.

 

“Girls,” he said finally. That seemed safe enough, general enough. “Being around them, or thinking about them.”

 

“Fantasizing, you mean.”

 

He nodded.

 

“Just girls? Any girls?”

 

He edged closer to the truth: “Ones I’m interested in.”

 

“Well, that seems fairly normal. Healthy, even. So it’s really just the frequency and the, ah, potency of the reaction that’s been an issue.”

 

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” When she put it like that, it didn’t sound like such a big deal, after all. He wasn’t a pervert, or a sex maniac; he just had a little more lead in his pencil than he was used to. “Still, you can see why I didn’t want to talk to  _you_  about it.”

 

Steve froze, realizing what he’d just said.

 

Peggy carried on eating, and didn’t give any indication that she’d taken his meaning—until she picked up her spoon and tried to use it to cut her meat loaf.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m sorry,” said Steve—and then, confusedly, “I have nothing but respect and—”

 

She put the spoon down and held up a hand for silence. “Please stop.” Her face was definitely redder than it had been a moment ago.

 

“Sorry,” he repeated, then quickly packed potatoes into his mouth to keep himself from apologizing a third time.

 

“Steve. I’m not angry.”

 

He glanced up and saw that she was looking at him with—well, he wasn’t quite sure to make of it. Sympathy, maybe? Understanding?

 

Something more?

 

“However,” she continued briskly, “I  _am_  personally offended, given the price of my ticket, that I didn’t get to see Captain America sing or dance in the Captain America Show.”

 

“It’s called the Star Spangled Show,” he pointed out, relieved to be allowed to change the subject.

 

“In any case, it’s frightfully unpatriotic,” she declared. “I really ought to complain.”

 

“Complain all you want, it’s not gonna cure my two left feet.”

 

“Did you have those before the procedure? I’ll have to mark it down, otherwise.”

 

“Afraid so, yeah.”

 

“I wouldn’t think you’d have any trouble finding someone to teach you the steps.”

 

He got the sense that they weren’t just talking about dancing anymore.

 

“Sure,” he said, less than enthusiastically. “Now that I’m not a ninety-pound weakling, I get all kinds of offers.”

 

She regarded him steadily for a moment. “Perhaps the problem before was in your attitude,” she suggested.

 

It struck him as a pretty presumptuous thing for her to say. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said, “but you don’t know a thing about it.”

 

“I suppose not.” She took up the pen again. “I’ll try to get through these as quickly as possible, shall I?”

 

The rest of their discussion was short, business-like. Peggy scraped her plate clean while going through the rest of the checklist. None of Steve’s other answers seemed to raise any red flags, which was a relief.

 

After totting up the cost of their meals in the margin of one page, she determined that they had enough left over for dessert. Steve politely declined; Peggy decided to splash out on apple pie a la mode, and coffee for both of them.

 

Steve recalled, then, that the rationing over in Europe was even stricter than it was in the U.S. He’d been fed pretty well on the tour, but he was familiar enough with that kind of hunger, the subtle blade-edge of almost-starving. No wonder she was devouring everything in sight.

 

“How long are you in town?”

 

“Just tonight. Then I’ve got to turn straight around and go home.”

 

“That’s quite a commute. Assuming you’re still working out of the London office.”

 

“Yes. It’s been a blow, the project being such an utter box-up. We did have a lead on a French chap who was doing similar work, a correspondent of Dr. Erskine’s. HYDRA found him before I could get there.” She sounded angry with herself. “Now it’s primarily tracking Schmidt’s movements, and analyzing whatever scraps of their technology we can lay hands on.”

 

“I wish I could be out there to help.”

 

To Steve’s surprise, she nodded her agreement. “So do I. I’ve asked.”

 

“You have?”

 

“Of course. You’re untested, but that’s easy to fix. You’ve had the same training as the others, and they’ve all shipped out. I think it’s disgusting that they’ve made you the Army’s song-and-dance man. It’s a criminal waste. That’s why I pushed to be allowed to come and evaluate you.”

 

Steve’s heart leapt. “That’s what this is? You’re here to see if I’m ready for combat?”

 

“I can’t promise anything,” she cautioned. “I shouldn’t be bringing it up at all.”

 

“No, of course not, but—thank you, Peggy.”

 

She waved away his gratitude, looking slightly abashed. “I haven’t done anything to be thanked for just yet.”

 

“You stuck up for me. That’s something.”

 

“Only because it’s what I truly believe. There’s no need to get a swelled head.” She paused with her coffee cup midway to her lips as the double entendre caught up to her. This time she definitely blushed, then shook her head sternly and said, “Don’t be juvenile.”

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he pointed out.

 

“Well, wipe that smirk off your face.”

 

“I’m sorry, did I embarrass you?” Steve really wasn’t sorry at all. It was so rare to see the formidable Agent Carter caught flat-footed, and he was enjoying it more than he probably should. “You wanted me to get everything out in the open.”

 

“Yes, well. Your little problem wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

 

“It’s not a  _little_  problem,” Steve shot back.

 

She raised a single, delicate eyebrow. He felt himself going red, but he met her gaze and refused to back down.

 

“Size isn’t everything, Captain,” she said evenly.

 

“I guess you’d say experience is more important?”

 

“Far from it. In my opinion, the crucial elements are determination to succeed, the right attitude, and a willingness to be instructed.”

 

It was the second time in their conversation that she’d used that word,  _attitude_. Steve had thought she was busting his chops earlier, but maybe there was more to it than that.

 

“What kind of attitude would you say is the right one?”

 

“It’s a matter of personal preference. Some women enjoy it when a man overmasters them. But for my part, I’d rather conquer than be conquered.”

 

Steve was floored. He’d just assumed that any woman, even the more forward ones, would expect a man to take the lead in bed.

 

But it stood to reason that if there were men like him, who hesitated and reflected, that there must be women on the opposite end of the spectrum. Women who knew what they liked, who saw what they wanted and took it. Women who  _conquered_.

 

“Which isn’t to say that I’m opposed to a man being confident,” Peggy continued, seemingly unaware of the fact that she’d just caused a fundamental shift in Steve’s world view (as well as his trousers). “There’s something to be said for that, in moderation.”

 

“Oh,” said Steve, who felt like he ought to be contributing more to the conversation than he was.

 

Peggy ate the last bite of her apple pie before adding, “Now that I’m not your instructor anymore, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you that I quite fancied that cheeky little blighter, Private Rogers.”

 

Steve was glad he was sitting down, because he was pretty sure his knees would have given out otherwise.

 

She was watching him, expectantly, so he knew he was supposed to say _something_. He got as far as another, “Oh,” before his brain refused to cooperate any further. Possibly because of lack of blood flow.

 

“‘Oh’?” she echoed. “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

 

“I… thanks?”

 

“Think nothing of it,” she said dryly.

 

Steve watched her take an envelope from her pocketbook and carefully count out the money for the cheque. His head was spinning.

 

_Fancied_ him. Meaning, she liked him—or she used to, back when he was small. And maybe she still did? There was no way to know, without asking, and it seemed like he might have missed his chance.

 

Mercifully, Peggy excused herself to use the powder room, giving him a few minutes to get control of himself.

 

He tried to focus on the least erotic thing his mind could possibly conjure up—which turned out to be the time he and Bucky had ridden the Cyclone at Coney Island, in the midday sun, after stuffing themselves with hot dogs and candy. After the ride, Steve had lurched down the exit ramp and projectile vomited right on the fairway, while Bucky had looked on in amused admiration, observing that he didn’t think such a little guy would have so much puke in him.

 

Steve’s stomach wasn’t as delicate as it had once been, but it was a pervasive enough memory that he was glad he hadn’t accepted Peggy’s offer of dessert. Still, it did the trick; by the time she returned, he was able to stand up with impunity.

 

When he offered to see her back to where she was staying, she told him that she’d been given a copy of his tour schedule, and had arranged to be in the same lodgings as him and the girls. She said it just like that, too, _lodgings_ ; Steve had to bite down on his lip to stop himself from telling her how much he liked hearing her talk.

 

As they entered the lobby, she touched his arm, asking, “What’s your room number?”

 

“402.”

 

She nodded, once, then said, “Right. You take the elevator, and I’ll go up the stairs.” She made it sound like they were on some sort of top-secret spy mission—which, he reminded himself, was not out of the realm of possibility.

 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, anything—to ask what she was doing, what _they_ were doing, whether he should be expecting HYDRA agents to be waiting in his room.

 

Instead, all he said was, “I can take the stairs.” He could tell by her expression that she was about to make a crack about unnecessary chivalry, so he quickly added, “Unless you wanted to walk off that pie.”

 

“Captain America, maligning apple pie? Doesn’t that go against your contract?”

 

“Captain America is a stage character,” he reminded her. “If you’re expecting to see me punch out Adolf Hitler tonight, you might be disappointed.”

 

She looked him up and down appraisingly. “I don’t think I’ll be disappointed.”

 

She sashayed off to the elevator while he was still waiting on the punchline.


	3. Chapter 3

 

He beat the elevator up four flights without breaking a sweat, and was waiting by the door to the suite when she arrived: hands jammed into his pockets, propping up the wall with one shoulder in a desperate attempt to seem casual.

 

Peggy seemed to take it all in stride, preceding him into the room as though it was something they did every evening of their lives.

 

The room was just like every other room he’d stayed in on tour, but now he saw it as she must see it: cramped, badly lit, stale-smelling. Everything seemed seedy, grubby, frayed at the edges.

 

She took off her shoes, which surprised him a little, then sat on the bed, folding her legs neatly to one side. It wasn’t an especially provocative pose; her dress covered everything above the knee, and her hands rested demurely in her lap. But the very fact of her being there, in his room, on his bed, felt strangely intimate.

 

He was still trying to decide what his next move ought to be when she said, “Please stop looming over me.”

 

Taking that as an invitation, he sat on the bed, careful not to jostle her too much. “Didn’t mean to loom,” he said drolly.

 

“Do you know what I can’t understand?” She adjusted her position, presumably to avoid rolling into the centre of the mattress, which was sagging under Steve’s weight. Her leaning away from him only served to further emphasize her spectacular figure, and he couldn’t stop staring.

 

It took him a moment to realize that she was waiting on a response from him, despite the question having been a rhetorical one. He found himself at a loss: there wasn’t anything he couldn’t imagine Peggy easily grasping. Especially just now.

 

“What’s that?” he prompted.

 

“You’ve had this problem of yours the entire time you’ve been on tour, and you haven’t employed the obvious solution.”

 

“The obvious solution?” he said, starting to feel like a pet parrot.

 

“Sex,” she said, with an appealing frankness. “A lot of it. Get it out of your system.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I haven’t… ever employed that solution.”

 

“Never?”

 

“Timing never seemed right.”

 

She laughed boisterously, catching him off-guard.

 

He crossed his arms, defensive. “Thanks.”

 

“Steve!” she exclaimed. “You’re the first man I’ve ever met who would find himself with a permanent erection, floating about from one motel to another with a busload of gorgeous women and no chaperone, and claim that the _timing wasn’t right_.”

 

“It wasn’t,” he insisted, feeling himself flush.

 

“Why on earth not?”

 

“Because none of them were—the one I want.”

 

Suddenly, Peggy wasn’t laughing anymore. Instead, she was examining his face intently, as if it were a code she was trying to crack.

 

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I… _fancy_ you.” He hoped that word meant what he was taking it to mean.

 

“Is that so?” Her expression was a complete cipher.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She didn’t say anything else, and he wondered, briefly, if he was about to get belted in the mouth. In the end, he concluded that if she’d wanted to hit him, it would’ve happened before he’d had time to consider the possibility.

 

He blundered onward with, “Look, I don’t expect—you don’t have to say it back, or—or, I don’t know, _do_ anything, I just wanted to—”

 

Which was as far as he got before she leaned over and took hold of his tie, pulling it towards her. And him along with it.

 

He closed his eyes too early, went in too fast; their mouths banged together unexpectedly, so hard that Steve bit his own lip.

 

She pulled back and laid a hand on his chest, stilling him. “You stay where you are,” she told him, with surprising gentleness, “and I’ll come to you.”

 

“Okay,” he said sheepishly.

 

She leaned in, slowly, her palm still resting over his heart. “It’s not a race,” she murmured, and kissed him lightly. “There’s no prize for finishing first.” She pressed her mouth to his, more firmly, working his lips open with her own. He could taste her lipstick, and the coffee she’d been drinking.

 

Steve hadn’t realized it was possible for a kiss to be passionate without being forceful. He forgot to be self-conscious, and felt his eyes drift closed. Peggy took little sips of his mouth, making soft sounds of enjoyment, as though he tasted just as good as apple pie and ice cream.

 

“Your heart’s going fast,” she said, when they finally broke apart.

 

“I like you a _lot_ ,” he confessed, in a stage whisper, figuring he may as well put all his cards on the table.

 

She grinned, winding her arms around his neck, drawing him back to her. “I like you a lot, too,” she whispered back, and kissed him again, tender and purposeful all at once.

 

Steve learned more in those next few minutes than he had in all the months he’d been on tour. If it hadn’t been obvious before, it was now: Peggy Carter was what the novelist might call _a woman of some experience_. In plainer terms, she knew what the hell she was doing.

 

In short order, she managed—he wasn’t entirely sure how, or when—to get Steve lying on his back. She peeled off his shirt and undershirt, her fingertips trailing sparks over his skin. She pressed kisses to his bare chest; he hadn’t expected that at all, hadn’t given much thought to the possibility that she might have the same desires and impulses about his body as he did about hers.

 

At her direction, he helped her to get her dress unzipped and down over her shoulders and arms, marking his progress with kisses. She seemed to like that a lot—arching her back, groaning whenever he lingered. He sensed that she was playing it up a little, trying to give him a nudge in the right direction, but he couldn’t help getting fired up all the same.

 

He took off her long-line brassiere on the first try; he may have been a virgin, but he’d also spent the past six weeks sharing a dressing room with two dozen showgirls. The costumes they wore used the same hook-and-eye fastenings as Peggy’s underthings, and there was always someone in need of buttoning or unbuttoning. If she was at all impressed by his prowess, however, it didn’t show.

 

And then she shrugged out of the bra and it was just Peggy, bare and beautiful, wearing a secret smile meant only for him.

 

He lifted a hand, then hesitated, awestruck. It felt a little like that moment of perfect promise before pencil touched paper: pure inspiration, mingled with an irrational dread of making a mistake and spoiling everything.

 

“Go on,” she encouraged, leaning forward just enough that her breast grazed his palm.

 

But that wasn’t his goal, not quite; not yet, anyhow. He wanted to do this properly, without rushing. Wanted to run his fingers over every inch of her skin, to see if she was really as warm and soft as she looked.

 

He managed to keep his hand steady as he reached up to caress her cheek, tracing the sharp line of her jaw. He watched her eyes drift closed, her lips parting ever so slightly as his thumb brushed across them. He stroked along the side of her neck and down, before resting his hand over her heart, just as she’d done to him.

 

“All right?” she asked, with a tremor in her voice. Her eyes were wide open now, startled; he’d done something she hadn’t expected, something that had thrown her off-course. He could feel the wild flutter under her skin, like the wings of a bird.

 

“I’m swell.” He couldn’t help grinning. “You?”

 

“Steve, this isn’t…” She looked serious, and a little sad. “It can only be tonight, I’m afraid.”

 

He understood, in principle. She had so much more to lose than he did. She had a real career, one that she intended to carry on after the war; all he had was a pair of tights, and a tin heater shield with cue cards taped to the inside. If word ever got out about the two of them, she’d likely get recalled from the SSR. It might even call into question her original assessment of the Project Rebirth candidates, damage her credibility.

 

He understood, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

 

Misreading his silence for hesitation, she drew back. “It’s all right if you’d rather… save your first dance for someone special.”

 

“ _You’re_ someone special,” he said, before he could stop himself. Even though they’d known each other only a short time, he’d never met anyone like her. He admired her like hell. If she liked him too, and wanted him, then there was meaning enough in that, even if it couldn’t last. “Please stay.”

 

She nodded. “I will. The whole night, if you’d like that.”

 

“I would, yeah.”

 

She stood, holding his gaze with hers, and slid her dress down over her hips, stepping out of it. She folded it carefully over the room’s only chair, turning the chair so she could rest her foot on it.

 

He watched, mesmerized, as she unclipped each of her stockings, easing them down over her calves with deft fingers. “I’d let you do it,” she told him, seeing his hungry look, “but these are my last decent pair. They’re impossible to get at home.” After shedding her garter belt, she stretched out alongside him in only her drawers, reclining gracefully against his shoulder.

 

He kissed her, wrapping her up in his arms—and no one had ever thought to tell him about this part, about how incredible it could feel just to _hold_ a girl, with nothing between you and miles of hot, silky-smooth skin. He couldn’t imagine existing in any moment other than this one, couldn’t picture a world beyond the flowery scent of her, the soft weight of her breast in his palm, the perfect fit of their bodies together.

 

In the midst of everything, she managed to wriggle a hand between them, her palm sliding over the front of his trousers. “Oh, my,” she remarked, in a voice that made his insides go liquid. “A promising start, Captain.”

 

If she kept on talking like that, sultry and sweet, he’d be through before she even had to touch him.

 

The same thought seemed to occur to Peggy. “Can you… just like this?” she asked, giving him a squeeze through the heavy wool.

 

“Less, sometimes.” He was too far gone, too hot and bothered to be ashamed of himself. He tensed, trying to keep from bucking into her hand.

 

She arched a single eyebrow. “I’ve barely touched you. How much less is there?”

 

“I thought we were through with the questionnaire,” he gritted out.

 

Her laugh was low and rich, full of promise. “Call it personal curiosity. I can see why you get distracted, if this is what you’ve got to deal with all day long. What a dreadful burden to bear,” she murmured, undoing his belt. “What an awful _hardship_.”

 

He groaned at the pun, covering his face with one hand. “You’re a menace.”

 

“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.” She said it so casually, as though she were exchanging pleasantries with him over afternoon tea, instead of pressed up against him with her hand halfway down the front of his boxers.

 

“I love the way you talk,” he blurted out.

 

He thought she might laugh at him again, but instead she just said, “Thank you, Steve,” very demurely. And blushed.

 

And then she put her hand on him.

 

It was good at first— _really_ good, a hundred times better than his own hand, especially when he got to kiss her and touch her at the same time. But she seemed to keep losing the rhythm just as he was getting close, slowing down when he needed her to speed up. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t getting this, when she’d been so good at everything else—but he knew better than to ask, even if his brain had been capable of formulating the question.

 

It wasn’t until the third time it started to happen that he realized it wasn’t an accident: she was bringing him to the edge and then backing him off, on purpose. It was starting to feel painful rather than pleasant.

 

“Peggy,” he gasped, putting his hand over hers to keep it moving.

 

She bit his lip and picked up the pace again, and didn’t stop, didn’t stop, didn’t stop until—

 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been rude, afterwards. He hadn’t really shown what she’d called _a willingness to be instructed_. Not to mention the mess.

 

“Sorry,” he said, when he was capable of forming words again.

 

“Don’t apologize.” She wiped her hand on his discarded undershirt, which he supposed was only fair, considering. “Actually, it was rather flattering. Though I’m hoping you can contain your enthusiasm a bit longer the next time.”

 

She used the shirt to clean him up too, before dropping it back on the floor and settling beside him again. He watched her hand trace his hipbone, then migrate to the edge of his ribcage, outlining it with her index finger.

 

“Not that I mind,” he said, his voice drowsy, “but what’re you doing?”

 

“Just looking.” She carried on, sketching the flared points of his collarbone. “You know, I worried that the procedure might change you.”

 

“It did.” Still bathed in afterglow, Steve felt as though he’d missed a step somewhere. “Wasn’t it supposed to?”

 

“Yes, of course. But what I mean is, I thought it might turn you into someone I couldn’t recognize. But you’re still as beautiful as you were. Just… on a slightly grander scale. It’s too bad we didn’t go to bed together before,” she added, dark eyes sparkling. “I could have compared the results. For science, I mean.”

 

And just like that, the truth was illuminated—a truth that Steve, until now, had only distantly glimpsed. She hadn’t only _liked_ him before the serum. He wasn’t the only one who had felt a connection. He just hadn’t known what that might look like, until now.

 

“I don’t know if I could’ve handled you before,” he confessed.

 

“I think we’d have found a way. For example, I could have had you on your back—easier for you to breathe, not so much exertion.”

 

“Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”

 

“Hmm, well.” There was heat to her voice, her look. “One must find some way to entertain one’s self on cold evenings.”

 

Now _there_ was a picture to put in a fellow’s head. Steve didn’t think he’d ever be able to get rid of it—though the reality was surely even better than the fantasy.

 

Before he could reconsider, he blurted out, “Show me how you do that.”

 

“You want me to have it off by myself?” She said it with a straight face, but he was getting to know her voice well enough now to know when she was teasing. “I may as well go to my own room, if that’s the case.” She moved as if to leave the bed, but he caught her up in his arms, pinning her beside him.

 

“I was hoping to help,” he clarified. “But I want you to show me what you like.”

 

By way of reply, she kissed him. “You’re lovely, you know. All right. Come here.”

 

She shimmied out of her drawers, lay on her back, and gave him a quick geography lesson: guiding his hand over the topography of herself, pausing at areas of particular interest. She touched herself at first, his hand loosely covering hers, until he’d seen enough to be able to copy the movements on his own.

 

Once he’d gotten the hang of that, she promoted him to the advanced class: two different motions, each with their own pace and pressure. He mastered that too, before long—learned how to read the signals she gave, how to tell if ‘more’ meant harder, or faster, or deeper, or some combination of the above. The noises she made were less restrained now, more urgent.

 

A variety of expressions passed over her face, almost too quick to catch: one second, she’d be frowning and biting her lip, and then, suddenly, she would gasp, sounding desperate for air. A moment later, she’d be kissing him, pulling his tongue into her mouth, as though trying to take him inside of her in every way at once.

 

He thought about trying to draw things out—to back her down from the peak, the way she’d done to him—but even if he’d had the skill, he was more eager to see her over the finish line, to make her feel as good as he’d felt.

 

“Jesus, Steve,” she said at last, and swore, and then he could feel her tremble, inside and out. “Wait,” she gasped, pressing her hand against his, clamping her legs tight. “Don’t st—don’t stop, just a little more—”

 

He obeyed, and moments later, a second tremor followed, hard on the heels of the first. This time, she cried out, then went limp and collapsed against him, covered in sweat, pushing his hand away.

 

He’d known, of course, that girls could sometimes get off twice in a row, but it was another thing entirely to see it happen. To be responsible for it happening. Steve was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life—which, considering the past couple of hours, was saying something.

 

Peggy made a sleepy, happy sound and pulled him close. “Well done, you,” she said, in a hoarse voice, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair. “Top of the class, my darling.”

 

The words made him glow, made him tingle all over. To be Peggy Carter’s darling—to belong to her, in some way, even if only for a night—was more than he’d ever thought possible, more than he’d ever dared to dream even in a lonely motel fantasy.

 

He would have happily spent the rest of the night just kissing her—sweet, drowning, drugging kisses. However, if the way she was wriggling against him was any indication, Peggy wasn’t through with the lesson plan just yet.

 

Without breaking the kiss, he managed to kick off his trousers and shorts; he was vaguely conscious of disrespecting the uniform, but somehow, he didn’t think Peggy would be conducting an inspection as part of her visit.

 

“Socks,” she reminded him. “I can’t abide a man who leaves his socks on in bed.”

 

Steve had mostly forgotten that he had feet at all, never mind that they still had socks on them. “Sorry,” he said, shucking them off hastily.

 

Throwing an arm around his shoulders, she hauled him down until he was propped on his elbows, his knees bracketed by hers. She was stronger than he might have expected, and he liked it. A lot.

 

“I hear you’re the man with a plan,” she said, cheekily. “What’s your plan, Captain America?”

 

The word _plan_ tweaked something in the back of Steve’s mind—a dim remembrance of basic training. Peggy making them watch an unpleasant hygiene film, explaining that they’d be issued prophylactics in their field kits.

 

Steve, a mere performer working stateside, didn’t have a field kit. He could have kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner.

 

“I’m an idiot,” he announced.

 

“What? Why?”

 

“I don’t have any rubbers.”

 

She looked amused, rather than annoyed. “That’s the oldest line in the book, soldier.”

 

“I honestly don’t. I wasn’t expecting this to happen,” he protested. “I’m sorry. I should’ve thought of it sooner.”

 

“You’re lucky I had more foresight. And that I’ve seen your medical records.” Steve must have had a confused look because she added, patiently, “I know you’re clean. And I’ve taken my own precautions. Have you heard of a Dutch cap?”

 

He had. He didn’t know what the feminine equivalent of locker room talk might be, but he’d heard plenty of it over the past couple of months. He was surprised, and a little embarrassed—he would have thought you’d be able to feel a thing like that. Though, in his own defense, he hadn’t exactly been poking around after it.

 

He also knew that for a cap to be effective, a girl had to put it in place well ahead of the main event; unless she’d done it in the elevator, Peggy had known hours ago that this was where she’d wanted the evening to end. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that; she’d given him the impression that he’d been at least somewhat involved in the decision-making.

 

“You figured I’d be a sure thing?” he said lightly.

 

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Of course not. Though,” she added, with a wicked grin, “I was rather hoping.”

 

And that was it. Steve didn’t need any more hints thrown at him. He was through beating himself up over whether he might be misreading expressions or cues. Peggy was there, naked and willing and making herself as clear as she could, short of using signalling flares.

 

And he’d be damned if he was going to let the opportunity pass him by.


	4. Chapter 4

Peggy clearly knew what she was doing, so Steve followed her lead. She took hold of his hips, placing him where she wanted him.

 

Gently, very gently, he pushed in, just a touch, then pulled back. He watched her face, hoping for signs of pleasure, but all he read there was impatience.

 

“More. Like this,” she said, her back arching upwards. She enveloped him fully, slick and hot, and for a wild second Steve forgot how to breathe. It was, all at once, exactly what he’d hoped, and nothing like he’d expected.

 

Everything in the room seemed to get louder, brighter, warmer. He felt overwhelmed by sensation, short-circuited.

 

“Peggy,” he panted, trying to restrain himself.

 

“You’re all right,” she breathed, locking her leg around his hip and trying to pull herself flush against him again. “A little harder. You won’t hurt me.”

 

That possibility hadn’t even _occurred_ to Steve until she said it. He was aware of the fact that he had more to offer than the average man—but they were doing what men and women were made to do. Surely it couldn’t make _that_ much of a difference?

 

He was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his body: large, heavy, fast, powerful. Dangerous. What if he lost control? Forgot himself, with Peggy beneath him, vulnerable and trusting? Started to exhibit those _unpleasant side effects_ she’d been sent to examine him for?

 

“Steve. Look at me.”

 

He opened his eyes, unaware until that moment that he’d been squeezing them shut.

 

“Do you want to stop?”

 

Acute embarrassment washed over him. “No. I—it’s a lot. I’m sorry.”

 

She reached up to caress his flushed cheek, gently. “You’re all right,” she repeated, low and soft. “Take your time. Don’t let me push you into anything.”

 

“You weren’t.”

 

“I was certainly trying.” And in case he’d managed to miss the double entendre, she tipped him a theatrical wink.

 

Steve couldn’t help laughing—which felt strange, since he was still inside of her. Even the slightest movement seemed magnified. It had an effect on Peggy, too; a good one, if the way she was biting her lip was anything to go by.

 

She pulled his head down for a kiss, and for a while, that was all they did—kiss after kiss, soft and sweet, like they had all the time in the world and nothing else existed. Peggy dragged her fingernails lightly down his neck, along his shoulders, and down his back, making him shiver. She stroked up and down his sides, just firm enough not to be ticklish.

 

The urge to move inside her built and built until, finally, he couldn’t hold back.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispered, her mouth hot against his neck. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him gently but inexorably back to her, over and over. “Steve, yes.”

 

No one had ever said his name like that before—low and rough and _wanting_. Normally, it would’ve been more than enough to set him off, but he was nowhere near it.

 

Peggy might have had it right, after all. There was nothing wrong with him, not really. He’d just needed to get it out of his system. That was why she’d kept him on the edge for so long the first time, he realized; she was running a little experiment of her own. Probably not one officially sanctioned by the United States Army.

 

“Hey.” Her palm against his cheek brought him out of his own head, back to the present moment. “Still with me?”

 

“I’m here,” he assured her, punctuating it with a kiss.

 

“Touch me,” she urged.

 

“Now?”

 

Her laugh was high-pitched, breathless. “Yes, _now_!”

 

He reached down. The angle was awkward, his fingers clumsy. Still, once he oriented himself, it did the trick: she kissed him frantically, biting at his lip, and moaned, coming apart beneath him.

 

As amazing as it had been to bring her to the peak with his fingers alone, this was infinitely better; her pleasure seemed to flow into him, lighting him up from the inside out.

 

He could tell the exact moment when she finally floated back down to earth. She gazed up at him, glassy-eyed and flushed, dark hair spilling over the pillow.

 

Steve was still rock-hard and desperate. But one thing that the girls from the show had been very clear on, in their frequent and unsolicited advice about his love life: _a true gentleman never overstays his welcome_.

 

It took everything he had in him, but he somehow managed to slow his movements.

 

Peggy blinked up at him, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Aren’t you—aren’t you done?”

 

“You can’t be _real_!” she exclaimed.

 

He couldn’t quite figure out where he’d made a wrong turn, but it couldn’t be altogether bad, if it made her laugh like that. Of course, laughing made her tense up in places that really didn’t help his situation.

 

“Steve. Darling. Thank you for thinking of it.” She touched his cheek tenderly. “Keep going.”

 

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

 

In his enthusiasm, he overshot, slipped out entirely, and somehow managed to miss on the re-entry. Peggy made a sound of profound disappointment, but took him in hand and helped him make a course correction.

 

His movements now were automatic, compulsive; he forgot to be careful, forgot about holding back, forgot everything but Peggy, Peggy, _Peggy_ —

 

She held fast, nails biting into the back of his neck, murmuring his name as he gasped hers. Everything went white for a moment.

 

He fell onto the mattress, his body limp, only returning to himself when he felt her settle against him, tugging his arms around her.

 

He pulled her closer and kissed the top of her head, whispering endearments into her hair—foolish, sentimental things he would’ve been too embarrassed to ever say in the light of day. He told her that she was the girl in every song he’d ever heard, every piece of poetry he’d ever read.

 

And she told him things, too: how she’d liked him from the moment he’d knocked down the flagpole, how she’d fallen for him when he’d jumped on the dummy grenade. It was the first time, she said, that she’d looked at a man and recognized a kindred spirit.

 

They talked for what seemed like hours, before at last she suggested they ought to go to sleep. “I’ve an early flight tomorrow,” she said, in a voice tinged with regret. “And you’ll be off to your next engagement.”

 

“We’ll be in London in about a month.” When she didn’t reply right away, he added, “There’s a general delivery address for all of us on the tour, if you ever wanted to write. Or I could write to you.”

 

She leaned across his chest and shut off the bedside lamp, then snuggled up to him, pulling the covers over them both. They were still naked, but he didn’t mind if she didn’t.

 

“You should wake me in the night,” she told him, “if you’d like to further your education.”

 

“I like this just as much,” he admitted.

 

She was watching him, her dark eyes catching a glimmer from the streetlamps outside.

 

“Of course you do,” she said, and there seemed to be some fondness to it.

 

*

 

It was still dark when he floated up from a deep sleep to the feeling of Peggy pressing hot, soft kisses along his shoulder. He heard himself groan, and felt her murmur something encouraging in response.

 

Steve was too relaxed, too comfortable to be self-conscious. He turned to face her and they kissed for a while, languorously, before she slid her leg over his hip and took him in. No words, this time—only her soft cries of pleasure, and the slick sound of their bodies together.

 

As the urgency built, he slipped a hand between them, rubbing her with his thumb, like she’d shown him before. She gasped, tightening around him, and that was enough to set him off too.

 

“You’re getting rather good at that,” she told him afterwards, and kissed the end of his nose.

 

“You’re a good teacher.”

 

She made a vaguely affirmative noise, and tucked herself into the crook of his arm, as though she’d always belonged at his side. He pressed a kiss into her hair, keeping his face there to breathe her in, trying to commit every part of her to memory.

 

Steve didn’t think he would sleep again, but the next thing he knew, he was opening his eyes to the watery grey light of dawn.

 

Peggy was sitting on the end of the bed, already mostly dressed, the tools of her feminine trade laid out beside her like the disassembled pieces of a firearm. He watched her apply powder, blush, and lipstick, with military precision, before snapping her mirrored compact shut and loading everything back into her handbag.

 

“Sneaking out?” he murmured.

 

She smiled. “I tried to wake you, but you wouldn’t stir. I did leave you a note.” She showed him a piece of folded paper, then pressed it to her mouth, leaving a lipstick kiss just above where she’d written his name.

 

“You sleep okay?”

 

“Divinely. You’re like a giant hot water bottle. I’d pack you away in my suitcase if I could.”

 

She said it lightly, but there was meaning behind it. It made him want to grab hold, but he knew if he did that, he risked losing everything.

 

“Thanks for…”

 

“Not at all. I wasn’t thinking of it as a charitable undertaking.”

 

“I know, but I want to—”

 

“Well, I don’t. I hate goodbyes,” she told him, emphatically.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Get dressed and wash your face. Then we’ll see if there’s anywhere to get a decent cup of tea, all right?”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

A bit awkwardly, he carried his clothes into the little bathroom. He scrubbed the lipstick off his cheeks and chin, and set himself to rights as best he could.

 

He was only half-surprised to find the room empty when he came out again.

 

There were a few faint traces of her: the lingering scent of her perfume on the sheets, and on him; smudges of dark eye makeup on the pillow where she’d slept; a solitary hairpin on the nightstand; and, of course, the sharply-creased note on the desk, with its perfect lip-print. Evidence that she’d kissed him, had spent the night in his arms—that all of it, whatever it amounted to in the end, had been real.

 

The note was thin as tissue. As he unfolded it, his heart sank: she’d left him a carbon copy of the last page of her assessment of him. Which was considerate, but he’d been hoping for something a little more personal.

 

_In conclusion,_ she’d written, _Captain Rogers has completely adapted to the effects of the serum. He has surpassed every project benchmark: he possesses strength, speed, coordination, and intelligence, all in ample supply. In addition, he has retained the creativity, determination, and fortitude that set him apart as a candidate during the selection phase of the project. It is my recommendation that he be immediately recalled from the USO tour and deployed to the field, where he is urgently needed, and where I am quite certain he will distinguish himself in short order._

 

At the very bottom of the page, there was a postscript—in ink, not part of the original document. Steve blinked in disbelief, then read it over again.

 

It was an address in London. Private and residential.

 

He folded up the slip of paper, careful to preserve the lipstick print as best he could, and tucked it away inside his notebook, securing it with the hairpin.

 

It didn’t take him long to pack; all he had apart from the notebook was his costume for the show, a spare uniform, and a couple of paperbacks.

 

He went downstairs and checked out, figuring he’d round up a few of the girls, maybe rustle up breakfast before they had to hit the road. Instead, though, he dawdled in a corner of the hotel gift shop, finally settling on a picture postcard. It was a bird’s eye view of the neighbourhood; the theatre was clearly visible, as was the diner. The photo was hand-tinted, and the colours were pretty good, even if the composition seemed a little off.

 

He bought two copies.

 

One copy went into his notebook, covering up Peggy’s note. He’d decide if he was going to mail the other one when they got to their next stop. She hadn’t said whether she wanted him to write—but she hadn’t said _not_ to write, either.

 

Even if he sent the postcard that day, he might still get to London before it ever did.

 

A month wasn’t as long as all that.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Once Is Not Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14586741) by [APC1989](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APC1989/pseuds/APC1989)




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